


Woman King, Sword in Hand

by middlemarchingfic



Series: Codices [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 13:21:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5418590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarchingfic/pseuds/middlemarchingfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Becoming--and unbecoming--the Viscount of Kirkwall. Possibly some things are better left up to idle speculation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The prologue to this work was originally a response to a prompt on a livejournal community back in 2011 or 2012. I've since let it run away from me.

"These will be your personal chambers, Your Excellency." Seneschal Bran pulled open the door to the Viscount's private suite and gestured inside with a single, precise movement of his hand. "I hope you find them suitable."

"You hope," Hawke repeated without looking in, "or you require?"

"For the purpose of facilitating our professional relationship, consider the terms interchangeable." The seneschal dipped his head once. "Enjoy your leisure time while you can. Tomorrow, I am afraid, you will have to prove yourself competent at more than merely swinging a broadsword." He took his leave abruptly and disappeared down the corridor, leaving Hawke to face the unexpectedly daunting task of crossing the threshold on her own. Her chest felt cold and tight.

It looked no more or less remarkable than any other suite in the Keep, but years without an occupant had dulled the color from the carpet and walls. The air smelled old, and felt both empty and brimming over in a way that defied description, like the man who had once lived and worked and slept and chastised his earnest, disobedient son in this very room might wander past at any moment in search of a pen, or a needed missive, or a lost pair of gloves. Someone had drawn the curtains to let the light in, but the sepulchral atmosphere wouldn't be chased away by a bit of fresh air and sunshine.

She let her body do the work for her brain and took a mechanical step inside, then crossed the room to the old oak desk situated near the window, ran her fingers across its surface disturbing a fine layer of dust that came up on her fingertips. She looked at a collection of old letters bound by twine, a few books with marks tucked into their pages that would never be finished, and the small, faded likeness of both a woman and a boy with dark hair and impossibly blue eyes. Little bits and pieces of an interrupted thought, Marlowe Dumar, forgotten by everyone else even while the problem of his office persisted. Hawke collected the portrait and let it rest in her palm, watching it as its painted eyes watched her.

When Aveline came to stand in the doorway, she didn't look up. She let out a slow breath, but every muscle still felt taut as a bowstring ready to snap. "Can I do this?"

"It's not really a matter of 'can,' but 'must,'" Aveline pointed out and took a few steps towards her through the still air and dust. "And as to that question, well." She smiled her not-quite-smile which never seemed to quirk her lips, but glinted sharp and steady in her eyes. "You know the answer already."

Hawke surprised herself with her involuntary smile. "Somehow," she remarked wryly, "I knew you were going to say that."


	2. Chapter 2

It was customary for the Divine to preside over the coronation of Kirkwall’s Viscount but, given the circumstances, a visit to one of the most politically unstable cities in the Free Marches was deemed unwise. Instead, the coronation would be held in the neighboring city of Starkhaven before the turbulence sparked by the mage rebellion inevitably spread there.

That wasn’t the only reason Starkhaven was selected as an appropriate alternative. After all, there was a royal engagement to announce, too.

“I’ve met with the Seneschal about tightening security while you’re away.” Aveline stood in front of the Viscount’s throne, helm under her arm. “The city guard should have matters well in hand until your return. Not to worry.”

Sitting on the throne itself, Hawke had her steely grey stare fixed somewhere past the flyaway strands of copper hair near Aveline’s right cheek bone. Water droplets still clung to the Guard Captain’s fair skin, Hawke noticed, from the storm hurling itself against the city. A bit of foul weather never kept Aveline off patrol. The two of them were alone in the cavernous chamber, save for a handful of servants dusting cobwebs out of the corners and packing away the vestiges of Dumar’s rule. The Amell crest had taken its place on the banners hanging from the walls and ceiling. Surreal, Hawke thought, to see so much of what had been so important to Mother, while she was no longer around to look at it herself. What would she say about any of this?

The coronation was for appearances only. For all practical purposes, she had stepped into the Viscount’s shoes as soon as Knight-Commander Meredith fell at the Gallows. But appearances were all the people had to cling to, as Seneschal Bran was fond of reminding her, especially with the future uncertain as it was. Hawke was obliged, if not obligated, to give them what veneer of normalcy she could manage before Kirkwall seized upon another excuse to riot.

She drummed her fingers against the armrest once, twice, three times, then stilled her fidgeting and stood up. “I’m not worried,” she said, and grimaced at the edge of weariness in her voice. “I’ll meet with the Seneschal to go over the details.” She drew the deep burgundy fabric of her cloak around her shoulders and descended the stairs away from the imposing, uncomfortable chair that now dictated the course of her life. The thorny black crown was yet to come, but it waited for her, she knew. She braced herself to bear its weight.

She would make the office strong again. She would not be weak. 

Aveline’s eyes followed her down the stairs. “I’d like to go over them with you myself before you depart.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Hawke,” Aveline pressed, uncertainty in her voice, and that was enough to make Hawke pause her descent. “I would prefer it if you’d let me accompany you to Starkhaven. The guard detail assigned to your retinue is formidable, yes, but I’d trust the surety of my own sword arm before theirs.”

Hawke almost smiled. It was a threadbare expression that reached her lips, not her eyes, but it was there. She chuckled breathily. “And what of my sword arm? There was a time you trusted me to look after myself, you know.”

“That was before.” Aveline watched her steadily. “You must recognize that your circumstances have changed.”

There was much she left unsaid, but Hawke didn’t need to hear the words to guess at least at their subject matter; before the destruction of the Chantry, before the start of the mage rebellion, before her choice to accept the Viscount’s throne. Life had been different then. Hawke may not have been safe, but at least she’d had trusted friends to watch her back. She was running perilously short on those these days.

She felt Aveline’s eyes on her and reined her thoughts in. “Who will assume your responsibilities,” she asked, “if you accompany me?”

“Guardsman Brennan Evighan,” Aveline replied promptly, and pressed her advantage as though she could sense Hawke’s wavering resolve. “She’s a steady hand at the wheel, and will do well. I’ve broached the subject with her already. She’s more than prepared.”

“As are you, apparently.” Hawke caught a glint of both triumph and humor in her green eyes. “Very well,” she decided and descended the remaining stairs. “I’d welcome the company, anyway.”

This time, Aveline did not immediately fall into step at her side. “Just like that?” she asked, dubious.

“Not exactly.” Hawke glimpsed the Seneschal waiting for her outside the throne room, judiciously arranging sheaves of paper. He managed to make even that innocuous action irritating. She forced herself to move her leaden feet, to take a step in his direction. “We have one last gauntlet to run before the preparations are complete.”

“Oh, Maker,” Aveline sighed through her nose. “What a pleasure.”

“I think it might be, for him.” Hawke regarded the only friend she had left in Kirkwall and felt warmth uncurl within her at the familiarity of Aveline’s slightly furrowed brow, the terse set of her lips, the ineffable steadfastness that seemed to suffuse everything she did--even frowning. Yes, she realized, it would be good to have Aveline by her side in Starkhaven.

She came back to herself and took a breath. “It’s not too late to change your mind, you know.”

“Of course it is. I know what kind of trouble you get up to when left to your own devices.”

Aveline caught her eye, and together they shared a small smile. Then Aveline gestured ahead of them. “After you, Your Excellency.”


	3. Chapter 3

Tradition dictated that the Viscount-in-Waiting should have an impressive retinue for the journey to Starkhaven, and it appeared that Seneschal Bran would drag tradition kicking and screaming back to Kirkwall whether Hawke liked it or not. Straightening her cufflinks, Hawke leaned against her chamber window and scrutinized the contingent of nobles gathered on the steps of Viscount’s Keep, all of them fussing and picking at their accoutrements like a flock of preening budgerigars. “I don’t know any of these people,” she said. Then, doubtful, “Do I?”

“You know the de Launcets,” Bethany said distractedly. She didn’t pause in examining a long, violet gown that she held up against herself, considering her reflection in the mirror, but added tiredly, “I can’t believe the de Launcets are coming.”

“Not my idea,” Hawke said. “Bran insisted it would be a slight if I didn’t invite them. I still think we’d do the city a service by just leaving them behind in Starkhaven, don’t you think?”

She turned to smile at her sister, to share the old joke. Bethany caught her eye in the mirror, flinty and unsmiling, then resumed considering her wardrobe. Each exquisitely tailored garment bore the mark of the Kirkwall Circle on it, and Hawke did not miss how her sister’s eyes would not rest on the emblem for long, if at all. An unpleasantly cold combination of guilt, regret, bitterness and resentment coiled itself into a knot in her gut and sat there. For the first month or two after the destruction of the Chantry, they’d tried to have a dialogue about their differences. After two tense arguments and one shouting match that had nearly brought the templars to bear against her own sister, Kirkwall’s new First Enchanter, Hawke had learned to live within the ruins of their relationship. But that was best achieved when they didn’t have to see each other, and communicated through courteous letters.

She cleared her throat and looked once more around her quarters, under the pretense of taking a last minute inventory in search of anything she had forgotten to pack.“Thank you,” she said, her tone one of forced casualness. “For coming with me.”

“Of course,” Bethany replied, but her voice was a layer of softness across hard steel. She folded her gown and placed it in her luggage case. “I’m your sister. It wouldn’t reflect well on the office if I didn’t go.”

“Right,” Hawke said mechanically, and felt her throat grow tight.

“Shall I carry this?” Bethany asked, changing the subject with a deftness that Hawke struggled to match. It took her a moment to register the question; Bethany watched her expectantly, offering no help as she gathered her thoughts.

“No,” Hawke said at last and cleared her throat. “No, someone will be up to carry it out to the coach for us. Let’s just go.” They left the Viscount’s suite together in tense silence, walking a full arm’s length apart from each other and carrying no conversation.

Aveline and her guard contingent waited for them just before the large doors leading out onto the grand staircase, not quite pacing but nevertheless standing still with enough small, agitated motions to communicate her restlessness. Hawke felt a surge of relief at the sight of her and tried not to let it show in her expression. “Guard-Captain,” she greeted, retreating to the comfort of formality. “My apologies to have kept you waiting. First Enchanter Bethany and I are prepared to depart.”

Confusion registered on Aveline’s face just long enough for her to sense the frosty atmosphere between Kirkwall’s Viscount-in-Waiting and its First Enchanter. She adapted quickly, and dipped her head in a respectful bow. “No apologies are necessary, Your Excellency.” She straightened, turned briskly, and gave the order for the doors to be opened. Morning sunlight began to spill into the Keep’s grand entry chamber, and as Hawke stepped squinting out into the light, saw the gathered clusters of nobles at their carriages, saw one hundred faces turn on a coin to look up at her, she finally felt the surge of horrible dread that she had managed successfully to squelch up until this very moment. She was, possibly, one of the most hated people in Thedas. She was going to be the Viscount of Kirkwall.

She was going to marry Sebastian Vael.

Someone took hold of her arm, and Hawke realized she’d wobbled on her feet. Blinking, she looked to her side and saw Bethany, who had folded her arm into Hawke’s under the pretense of affection. Hawke knew better. “Sister?” Bethany prompted her softly, and despite all that had come between them, there was concern in her brown eyes. “Do you feel faint?”

Hawke felt more than saw Aveline pass behind and around her, forming up her guards. On her left, Hawke watched the sun catch every golden highlight in her friend’s ginger hair. A court minstrel took up his coronet to announce their departure. The music was an explosion of sound in her ears. Hawke closed her eyes for a fraction of a second to take a breath, then shook her head. “It’s just nerves,” she said. “I’m fine.” Hesitating, she looked at Bethany and tried to meet her eyes, but her sister had already looked away. “Thank you,” she said.

They descended the long staircase together, side by side and arm in arm, and once the carriage footman had helped them both into their carriage and the Keep’s servants had secured their luggage, the entirely too large retinue set off for Starkhaven without more fanfare. Hawke settled back into her seat and turned her eyes out the window to watch the city of Kirkwall gradually give way to the countryside, and harsher wilderness.

She and Bethany spoke of little. But an hour into their journey (an hour that Hawke spent alternating between perusing the reams of paperwork that the Seneschal had foisted off on her as essential, preparatory reading, and watching the afternoon sun reflect off of Aveline’s armor as her Orlesian courser flanked the carriage) Bethany spoke up abruptly. “You know you don’t have to marry him.”

It was a question that came at Hawke sideways, like a pommel to the rib cage. It smarted just as much, too, but the spike of near-pain quickly morphed into anger and disbelief. She looked across the compartment at the spine of a book that hid her sister’s face from view. After a second, Bethany lowered it and watched her expectantly. “Did you hear me, sister?”

“Mm.” Discreet as she could manage it, Hawke fished a smooth, round river stone out of her pocket and dragged her thumb around the edgeless circumference. She had to do it two or three times before she felt the tightness of her throat loosen and her words, which had been nothing but a mass of hurt and anger and guilt in her stomach, began to come to her again. An old trick Anders had taught her when she’d first come to him about the difficulty she’d struggled with since childhood. There was no real magic to it, other than her own mind’s marveling at the calming effect of the smooth stone on her feelings. It seemed unfair to use it now, but often, it was the only thing that would work.

Bethany continued to wait. Hawke cleared her throat and took a breath. “I heard you,” she said. It was a struggle to keep her tone cool and neutral, but she managed it. “If you and I are on speaking terms again, I’d rather we discuss anything other than my engagement to Sebastian. There’s nothing more to be said on that subject.”

Bethany regarded her rather more gently than Hawke felt she deserved, then looked down at the book in her hands. “I realize I’m sticking my nose in your business, and that we don’t discuss this sort of thing anymore--but I think you’re making the wrong decision, and I think you know it, too.”

“I know a lot of things,” Hawke replied bluntly. She counted them off on her fingers. “I know the state of the office’s treasury, and that it has taken months to pry the bureaucratic leeches off of it. I know that without the Gallows’ templars and the city guard, Kirkwall is a city state without defenses. I know we are one decisive invasion away from being conquered by another army, one that will doubtless be better armed than the Arishok’s stranded, depleted forces. I know that the Divine would bring an Exalted March to our doorstep--and I know that Sebastian Vael has secured his throne, and that he will help us restore stability, Bethany. He will.”

Her sister pursed her lips into a thin, stubborn line and said nothing else. Already, the gentle openness that had rekindled briefly in her eyes was snuffed out, and she’d returned her focus to her book. “I’ve said all I intend to say on the matter,” she rejoined quietly. “Maker knows you can’t be dissuaded from any path you set your mind to, even when it’s the wrong one.”

Hawke clenched her teeth and felt the calming effects of the river rock waning rapidly. “I am doing the best that I can.”

Silence answered her. Hawke felt no need to interrupt it, and let it continue, cold and uncomfortable, until the rocking motion of the carriage helped her nod off to sleep.


End file.
